Where Is He?

Let’s set the scene: it’s a lazy Sunday, the kind made for oversized jumpers, greasy takeaways and bingeing telly until your eyes glaze over. But not this Sunday. No, this Sunday, I was brushing mascara clumps off my lashes and cramming myself into an outfit I hadn’t worn for ages, all in the name of romance — or, let’s be honest, something vaguely resembling it.

Now, before I launch into this tale of modern-day tragedy, I must confess: I should’ve known better. Because, dear reader, this wasn’t my first rodeo with a South African. And, just like last time, I ignored all the warning signs — the tepid banter, the oddly curated selfies, the bare minimum effort. But when you’ve not been on a proper date since, well, Boris was still running the country, your standards get suspiciously elastic. Mediocre suddenly looks... promising.

So there I am, all glammed up, heading to a bar he raved about. According to him, it was the "vibe of the city" (whatever that means). I arrived a touch early – not because I was keen, obviously, but because I wanted to scope out the scene. Strategic reconnaissance, if you will.

And then, I waited.

And waited.

And... yep, waited some more.

I refreshed my messages like I was waiting for a Glastonbury ticket drop. Nothing. Not even a half-hearted, "Running late x". Nada. Zilch. The man had ghosted me in real time. I was officially stood up.

Honestly, I felt like I’d just walked into a social experiment. Was I on a hidden camera show? Would someone pop out with a mic and say, “Surprise! We just wanted to see how long it would take for your dignity to leave your body!”

Tail between legs, I left. My face doing that forced-smile thing where you try not to cry in public, but your soul is on fire. Back home, the rage kicked in — that hot, molten, adrenaline-fuelled fury that only heartbreak or a delayed Deliveroo can summon.

And here’s where I really didn’t learn my lesson.

Instead of letting it go, or laughing it off like any sane person with self-respect and Netflix would, I messaged. Oh yes. I went full Shakespearean wrath. A furious monologue of disgust:“Who the HELL do you think you are?”“You’re a vile excuse for a human being.”“I hope karma knocks your teeth in.”– You know, subtle stuff.

For a hot minute, I genuinely thought I was going to be banned from Hinge. Possibly deported. I had unleashed the verbal equivalent of a nuclear warhead – and the silence was deafening. Not a peep from him. No excuse. No “Sorry, mate, my gran died” (the classic). Just ghost town.

Naturally, the spiral continued.

I even stalked the “Are We Dating the Same Guy?” Facebook group, half-expecting to find a trail of victims and a warning sign: “DO NOT DATE THIS SOUTH AFRICAN – KNOWN FLAKE”. But nope. Not a single post. Just a sea of bitter rants from women tearing each other down over men who couldn’t spell “consistency” if it was tattooed on their foreheads.

It hit me then — perhaps the most soul-crushing realisation of all: he wasn’t a villain. He just wasn’t that into me.

Bleak.

In the end, there was no closure, no dramatic twist, no Hollywood ending. Just me, some washed-off eyeliner, and the haunting echo of my own angry rant sitting unread in a stranger’s inbox.

So what’s the moral of the story? Well, maybe it’s this: if you’re going to get ghosted, at least do it in your pyjamas with a tub of ice cream and zero expectations. And for the love of all that is decent, don’t rage-message. It’s not liberating. It’s not empowering. It’s just embarrassing.

Anyway, I’m off to redownload Bumble (don’t judge me).

Stay tuned for next week’s instalment.